Lyra  Yalensis 


Edward  Bliss  Reed 


YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


I     LIBRARY^) 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

i       SAN  DIEGO      J 


85Wa9hVi3t.Boston 


LYRA   YALENSIS 


LYRA    YALENSIS 


BY 

EDWARD    BLISS    REED 

AUTHOK   OF 

"ENGLISH  LYRICAL  POETRY" 


NEW   HAVEN 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


BUT  since  I  have  found  the  beauty  of  joy 
I  have  done  with  proud  dismay: 
For  howsoe'er  man  hug  his  care 
The  best  of  his  art  is  gay. 

Robert  Bridges. 


The  purpose  of  this  little  book  is  to  reflect, 
however  inadequately,  something  of  the 
humor,  the  sentiment,  the  idealism  of  the 
Yale  campus.  Its  appeal  is,  therefore,  a  lim- 
ited one;  yet  if  it  can  recall  to  graduates  the 
days  spent  in  New  Haven,  it  may  justify 
itself. 

Some  of  these  verses  have  already  appeared 
in  Life,  The  Forum,  the  Oxford  Magazine, 
the  Yale  Record,  the  Yale  Literary  Maga- 
zine, the  Yale  Alumni  Weekly.  I  wish  to 
thank  the  editors  of  these  periodicals  for 
permission  to  republish. 


CONTENTS 

To  a  Freshman 1 

To  Alumni  Hall 3 

Ode   on    the    Intimations   of    an    Unex- 
pected Cut 5 

In  Osborn  Hall 9 

The  Solution 11 

Lines  on  the  Destruction  of  an  Elm  .      .  14 

A  Letter  of  Advice 16 

Heredity 19 

Renunciation 20 

Vacational  Training 21 

In  Absentia 23 

The  Match 25 

Prologues    to    the    Bicentennial    Scenes 
depicting  the  history  of  Yale: 

I.     The   Founding  of   the   Colle- 
giate School       ....  29 
II.     The    Removal   of   the    School 

Library         31 

III.  Washington  at  Yale    ...  33 

IV.  The     Execution     of     Nathan 

Hale 35 

V.     Initiation    into    the    Freshman 

Societies 36 

VI.     The  Burial  of  Euclid  ...  38 

VII.     The  Fence  39 


viii  CONTENTS 

VIII.     A  College  Room  ....  40 

IX.     The  Yale  College  Chapel      .  41 

A  Ballad  of  All  Souls  Day  ....  42 
Two  Greek  Portraits: 

Penelope 44 

Ariadne 46 

A  Picture 49 

L'Envoi 50 

Romance 51 

In  Vacation: 

The  Wreck 53 

Frenchman's  Bay 54 

The   Heritage 56 

Adventure  58 


TO  A  FRESHMAN 

THEY  tell  me  that  you  start  for  Yale 
tonight ; 

I  trust  it  may  not  dull  anticipation 
To  hear  from  me  some  homely  maxims,  quite 
Horatian. 

At  college   there   are  men  who   seek   "great 

place" 
(So  Bacon  calls  it)   with  much  noise  and 

riot. 

Remember  shouting  never  won  a  race — 
Keep  quiet. 

Life  is  a  crowded  course,  the  track  is  long, 

The  runner  who  would  win  is  always  ready  ; 
Throw  not  away  your  strength  in  wine  and 
song — 

Keep  steady. 

You'll  hear  much  worldly-wisdom,  simon-pure. 
Look  calmly  at  Truth's  sun-light  without 

blinking ; 

Remember  half  the  sure  things  are  not  sure — 
Keep  thinking. 


2  LYRA  YALENSIS 

The  mind  must  move  or  else  it  turns  to  rust ; 
You  blunt  its  edge  when  you  descend  to 

shirking. 

Test  what  you  hear ;  take  little  upon  trust — 
Keep  working. 

It  is  no  mark  of  greatness  to  complain, 

And  wit  is  far  removed  from  mere  reviling. 
Remember  laughter  clears  a  clouded  brain — 
Keep  smiling. 

When  failure  seems  the  end  of  bold  desire, 

Sit  not,  like  shivering  Age,  forever  groping 
Over  the  whitening  ashes  of  the  fire — 
Keep  hoping. 

You  may  have  watched  a  swimmer,  far  from 

shore, 
Sink  'neath  a  wave  whose  foaming  crest  is 

breaking. 

You  hear  his  last  cry  in  the  ocean's  roar, 
(Mistaking). 

The  wave  recedes,  an  arm  gleams  in  the  light, 
He  plunges  on;  life's  cup  seems  overbrim- 
ming, 

So  when  a  breaker  buries  you  from  sight — 
Keep  swimming. 


TO  ALUMNI  HALL 

WHERE  once  we  rushed,  like  cattle  sent 
To  slaughter,  where  the  brave  and 

good 

Flunked,  'neath  the  massive  battlement 
Of  painted  wood. 

Where  Banjo  Clubs  would  jog  a  rhythm 
To  make  the  very  floors  unstable; 

Where  Richards  taught  the  logarithm, 
From  four  place  table. 

Where  once  the  Junior  danced  the  German, 
Or  told  the  chaperone  tales  that  shocked 
her, 

As  she  sat  yawning  in  her  ermine, 
Bored  as  a  proctor. 

Where  each  Commencement  grads  assembled 
To  hear  the  reverberate  platitude, 

And  at  the  stalest  jests  dissembled 
Great  gratitude. 

Alas,  it  goes!  though  o'er  it  glory 

Floats  with  the  flag ;  and  yet,  I  grant  it, 

Better  will  be  the  dormitory 
That's  to  supplant  it. 


4  LYRA  YALENSIS 

Where  safely  sheltered  from  the  road  or 
Gay  York  street,  Freshmen  at  their  will 

May  snuff  up  sanctity's  fine  odor, 
From  Dwight  Hall  grill. 


ODE  ON  THE  INTIMATIONS  OF  AN 
UNEXPECTED  CUT 

THERE  was  a  time  when  campus,  hall 
and  tower 
The  grass — a  most  pathetic  sight — 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparell'd  in  celestial  light 
If  the  professor,  lagging,  missed  the  hour. 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
For  now,  an  item  in  the  News  will  say : 
"Professor  X.  no  lecture  gives  to-day." 
Or  on  a  blackboard,  read  by  all  who  pass: 
"Instructor  Grindhard  cannot  meet  his  class." 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore; 
List  as  I  will, 
All  is  too  still, 
The  cheers  which  once  I  heard  I  hear  no  more. 

Ye  happy  students,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
In  my  mind's  eye,  your  boist'rous  jubilee; 
The  fullness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 

A  lecture's  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting 
When   trailing   clouds   of   pipe-smoke   do   ye 
come, 


6  LYRA  YALENSIS 

And    too   much    learning   works   the    mind's 
upsetting 

And  leaves  the  spirit  dumb. 
Whither  has  fled  the  shout  that  pierced  the 

ear 

When,  in  life's  daily  rut 
Came  the  unhoped-for  cut? 
Where  (don't  ask  me),  where  are  the  elms  of 
yester-year  ? 

Him,    haply    slumbering    o'er    a    ponderous 
tome 

In  Whitney  Avenue  home, 
The  clock  arouses  with  its  warning  note. 
With  pallid  face  he's  out  upon  the  street, 

Through  lips,  in  anguish  set, 

Mutt'ring  "I'll  fool  them  yet" 
And  wishing  that  the  hour  would  come  with 
leaden  feet. 

He  waits  with  melancholy 

The  fast  approaching  trolley 
But  who  his  wild  despair  can  ever  guess 

When  he  beholds — a  Waterb'ry  express! 
'  Now  must  he  run,  on  past  the  tennis  courts 

Where  careless  youth  disports. 

Now  scarce  he  sees 
Fair  Hillhouse  Avenue  as  on  he  flees; 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CUT  7 

He  notes  not  how  the  elm-beetled  trees  high 

over-arched   embower, 

He  looks  but  at  the  clock  on  Sheffield  tower, 
And  wishes  that  his  legs,  now  wobbling,  had 

more  power. 
Yet  on  he  rushes  past  the  dining  hall 

Whence  odors  fierce  appall ; 
On  through  the  street  ycleped  Grub 

And  in  his  speed  displaces 
The  groups  of  boot-blacks  with  their  shin- 
ing faces, 

(Ay,  theirs  the  rub!) 

What  recks  he  though  his  shine  be  three  days 
old. 

Nor  does  he  even  stop 
To  gaze  in  the  Co-op 

To  find  if  one  more  text-book  has  been  sold. 
(Auri  sacra  fames, 
O  get-rich-quick  disease.) 
He  does  not  stay  to  draw  from  his  post-box 
Those  circulars  of  fortune-bringing  stocks; 
But  faint,  and  scant  of  breath, 
O'er  Elm  Street,  'scaping  death 
He   leaps.      Now    from    Durfee   the   way   is 

clear. 
Sudden    the   chimes   ring   out,    the    students 

cheer — 
He  utters  low  a  word  unmeet  for  lady's  ear! 


8  LYRA  YALENSIS 

Battell's  chimes  toll  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  off  to  tea, 

Professors  homeward  plod  their  weary  way 
And  leave  Yale's  world  to  Donnelly  and 
me. 

Thanks  to  their  thirty  cuts,  the  students  live 
Through  tests  and  questionings  with  bluffs 

and  fears. 
To  me,  an  unexpected  cut  would  bring 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for 
jeers. 


IN  OSBORN  HALL 

TN  old  days  they  say  that  Plato 
•*-     Taught  in  quiet  groves,  where  all 
Heard  him  question  and  debate.     O, 
What  a  change  from  Osborn  Hall. 

Hear  the  trolley  wheels  loud  creaking, 
Listen  to  that  deafening  bell! 

(That's  not  the  Professor  speaking, 
Merely  some  young  newsboy's  yell.) 

(Men  on  the  front  row  reclining 
Have  not  caught  a  word  to-day, 

Yet  his  forehead's  moist  and  shining. 
Sure  he's  working  for  his  pay.) 

That's  a  regimental  band  or 

Minstrel  show — they  drum  too  much. 
(He  is  lecturing  on  Landor, 

And  his  quiet,  classic  touch.) 

(Is  that  poetry  he's  reading?) 
Siren  screams  a  sounding  shriek! 

That's  the  fire-chief,  and  he's  speeding. 
One  more  fire  sale  this  week. 


10  LYRA  YALENSIS 

On  the  Taft  Hotel  they're  banging; 

With  a  most  infernal  sound 
Ring  the  iron  girders,  clanging 

As  they  dump  them  on  the  ground. 

Whistles  blowing,  tires  bursting, 

— Pandemonium's  begun — 
Soothe  the  mind  for  culture  thirsting. 

(What  ? — he's  gone  ? — The  lecture's  done ! ) 


THE  SOLUTION 

"The  lack  of  proper  and  safe  equipment  for  the  priceless 
American  fossil  collections  now  stored — much  of  it  still  un- 
studied for  lack  of  room— in  Peabody  Museum,  has  for 
nearly  forty  years  been  a  cause  of  worry  and  lowered 
scholarly  efficiency."— ALUMNI  WEEKLY,  January  24,  1913. 

METHINKS  I  hear  in  chorus 
Each  half-mounted  Brontosaurus, 
Each  Iguanodon,  Pteranodon,  and  Spoon-Bill 

Dinosaur, 

Cry  against  their  profanation: 
"O  respect  our  age  Cretacian 
Give  us  room  to  live  our  lives  out!     Can't 
you  set  us  up  once  more?" 

I 

Is  this  the  famed  museum  where  great  Huxley 
longed  to  be? 

(Consult  his  Life  and  Letters,  chapter  thirty- 
one.)  Ah  me! 

Shall  we  send  out  expeditions  to  explore 
unknown  Peru, 

When  the  cellar  of  Peabody  offers  work 
enough  to  do? 

Who  can  tell  what  there  lies  hidden,  who  is 
rash  enough  to  state 

What's  concealed  within  this  barrel,  what  is 
buried  in  that  crate? 


12  LYRA  YALENSIS 

How  it  sets  the  pulses  beating  when  we  think 

what  may  be  found 
In  the  basement  of  Peabody,  just  a  few  feet 

underground. 
In  this  room  a  saurian 's  two  legs  rise  proudly 

into  space : 
Read   its  card — "Left   uncompleted;   for   the 

rest  there  is  no  place." 
Think  in  every  walk  of  life  how  many  fossils 

meet  our  glance; 
Is  it  only  in   Peabody  that  a   fossil  has  no 

chance  ? 
Have  we  no  respect  for  family,  have  we  no 

regard  for  birth? 
Just  consider   that  these  creatures  were   the 

biggest   things  on   earth. 

II 
The  solution  is  quite  simple.     Pious  founders 

pass  them  by, 
But  we  cannot  hear  unmoved   the  pleading 

Dinosaur's  loud  cry. 
Start  a  Club ;  that  seems  too  easy,  yet  this  plan 

is  sure  to  win — 
Make  it  quite  select — at  once  both  men  and 

money  will  come  in. 
Six  months  gone,  the  affluent  treasurer  will 

say  in  his  report: 


THE  SOLUTION  13 

"Shall  we  build  a  marble  mansion,  Grecian 

temple,  bomb-proof  fort, 
Tiger   Inn,   or   Hasty   Pudding?"     No;  one 

better  we  will  see  'em 
And    eclipse    all    clubs    however    famed    by 

founding — a  Museum. 
Sands  of   time   await  our   footprints,   or  we 

pass  away  unknown. 
Let  us   honor   these   old   creatures  who   left 

footprints  in  the  stone. 
Give  each  fossil  space  to  breathe  in,  mount 

them  on  their  favorite  rocks; 
What's  the  use  of  having  fore-legs  if  they're 

hidden  in  a  box? 
Then  when  all  is  put  in  order,  as  a  Huxley 

would  have  planned, 

Call  a  meeting  of  the  Club,  inspect  the  build- 
ing, then— DISBAND! 

Methinks  I  hear  a  chorus, 

The  Ajax  Apatosaurus, 

Each  Triceratops,  each  Saurian,  each  Spoon- 

Bill  Dinosaur, 
Crying  out  in  desperation: 
"O  respect  our  age  Cretacian, 
Give  us  room  to  live  our  lives  out!     Can't 

you  set  us  up  once  more?" 


LINES  ON  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF 
AN  ELM 


Lines  written  December  2,  1912,  on  the  destruction  of  the 
elm  long  standing  on  the  corner  of  College  and  Chapel 
Streets. 

THY  rugged  form,  thy  proud,  substantial 
girth, 
Thy  branches — arms  outstretched  to  greet 

the  sky, 

Thy  stubborn  roots,  entwisted  deep  in  earth, 
Could  not  avail.     The  sentinel  must  die. 


In  happier  days,  ere  man  defaced  its  realm, 
It  heard  from  hall  and  fence  the  college 

glees ; 
And  when  the  moon-light  touched  it,  this  old 

elm 
Shook,  like  a  child,  for  joy,  at  every  breeze. 

Ah!  heavy  change!  the  gloomy,  great  white 

way; 

The  Taft,  that  hides,  unshamed,  the  sun- 
set's glow; 

Osborn,  where  midst  the  din,  Professors  pray 
Their  shrieks  may  carry  far  as  the  front 
row. 


DESTRUCTION  OF  AN  ELM    15 

Osborn,  that  weird,  fantastic  dream  in  stone, 
Perched  like  a  squatting  toad  with  open 
lip; 

Or  like  a  ferry-boat — banged,  battered,  blown, 
Bumping  a  blunted  nose  into  the  slip. 

The    Taft,    that    strange,    uncouth,    smoke- 
clouded  shape, 
Dwarfing   the   college   towers   in   senseless 

pride ; 

Can  brick  and  lime-stone  set  the  crowd  agape, 
When  all  must  see  there  is  another  side? 

Hail  and   farewell,  old   friend:   'tis  thy  last 

Fall, 
Take  thy  last  cut!  Woodman!  spare  not 

this  tree. 

Fated  to  watch  the  Taft  and  Osborn  Hall, 
Death  is  release — 'tis  better  not  to  be. 


o 


A  LETTER  OF  ADVICE 

(After  Praed) 

The  Bachelors  Club,  New  York 

NCE   more  we've   come   round   to   the 

season 

Of  Prom  time;  New  Haven  is  gay. 
You  hate  it,  and  that  is  the  reason 
I'm  sitting  here  writing  to-day. 
I'm  afraid  you  are  growing  pedantic 
With  working  too  long  on  a  book. 
Shut  it  up — throw  it  in  the  Atlantic, 
And  thirty  years  back  let  us  look. 

That   pest-house,    that   death   trap, — the   sta- 
tion— 

That  even  the  elements  spurn, 
(Once  ablaze,  in  a  just  indignation 

The  flames  were  unwilling  to  burn) 
We  spoke  of  it  then  in  derision, 

Yet  it  seemed  all  of  gold  of  pure  grain, 
A  dream  palace,  seen  in  a  vision, 

As  she  stepped  from  the  Farmington  train. 

'Twas  the  day  of  mazurka  and  schottische, 
Quite    removed    from    this    Turkey    trot 
thing, 

Where  to  music  that's  quite  tommy-rottish 
You  kick  out  like  jacks  on  a  string. 


A  LETTER  OF  ADVICE          17 

I  brought  up  Yale's  finest  to  show  her, 
And  I  wrote  one  man's  name  in  her  book, 

Who,  until  that  Prom  night,  did  not  know 

her, 
Well — he  was  the  man  that  she  took. 

We  coasted,  we  danced,  and  we  skated; 

Life  seemed  at  the  crest  of  the  wave, 
For  I  thought  .    .    .  why  complain?     It  was 
fated. 

Who  says  we  are  free  ?    Each  is  slave 
Of  a  Fortune  that  drives  men  like  cattle, 

Kills  the  king,  gives  the  beggar  the  crown. 
Do  I  see  her?     She  lives  in  Seattle, 

And  they  say  that  he  owns  half  the  town. 

Her  son  is  now  taking  your  courses. 

I  saw  the  young  hero  last  Fall. 
He'd  the  strength  of  a  whole  team  of  horses, 

And  the  speed  of  a  deer,  with  the  ball. 
I  rose  with  the  crowd  when  they  cheered  him, 

For  it's  better  to  cheer  than  to  whine. 
I'd  have  given  my  all  to  have  reared  him, 

For  a  moment — I  dreamed  he  was  mine! 

So  don't  be  severe,  my  dear  Herman, 
Remember  we  both  are  grown  old; 

If  they  fall  asleep  after  the  German, 
Don't  stop  in  your  lecture  to  scold. 


18  LYRA  YALENSIS 

Don't  answer  this  with  a  polemic 

On  intellects  going  to  rust; 
Yes,  dancing  is  unacademic, 

But  remember  they're  young  and — THEY 
MUST! 


HEREDITY 

WHEN    Normans   came   in   arms   from 
France 

And  each  stout  knight  took  sword  and  lance, 
Amid  the  bold  invading  throng 
Miss  Dolly's  ancestors  belong. 

When  George  the  King  upheld  wrong  laws 
And  patriots  rose  in  Freedom's  cause, 
To  war  Miss  Dolly's  grandsire  went, 
The  colonel  of  the  regiment. 

And  when  'twixt  states  arose  dark  strife 
Where  brother  sought  a  brother's  life, 
With  courage  high  in  leaden  fire 
Came  from  the  South  Miss  Dolly's  sire. 

Now  to  the  Prom  Miss  Dolly  comes; 
No  sign  of  war,  no  beating  drums, 
Yet  brings  destruction  to  the  dance, 
Alas!  she  slays  men  with  a  glance. 


RENUNCIATION 

I  MET  you  in  the  summer  tide, 
A  world-famed  Senior  then; 
On  every  side  the  doors  flew  wide 

To  me,  a  king  of  men. 
I  haunt  no  more  the  Newport  shore, 

'Tis  Coney's  isle  I  seek; 
Ah,  Clementine,  what  fate  is  mine, 
On  twenty-five  a  week! 

You  saw  me  sweep  Yale's  football  field, 

Spurred  by  the  bleachers'  roar. 
Now  unobserved,  without  a  word, 

I  sweep  an  office  floor. 
My  voice  was  great  in  each  debate, 

I'm  queered  now  if  I  speak. 
Ah,  Clementine,  can  genius  shine, 

On  twenty-five  a  week? 

In  limousine  you  ride  a  queen 

In  costly  gown  and  wrap; 
It  brings  despair  when  you  pass  me  there 

As  I  hang  on  a  trolley  strap. 
Could  I  but  share  with  some  millionaire, 

Some  banker,  fat  and  sleek  — 
Fate  draws  the  line,  you  can't  be  mine, 

On  twenty-five  a  week! 


VACATIONAL  TRAINING 
I 

OUTSIDE  a  lecture  room  by  chance 
I  happened  to  be  waiting; 
Two  eager  students  caught  my  glance, 
Both  earnestly  debating. 

"What  study,"  thought  I,  "thus  can  wake 

Their  unrestrained  emotion? 
'Twere  well  next  year  this  course  to  take 

That  rouses  such  devotion." 

"There's  no  such  luck!"  I  heard  one  shout, 
"Drop  it!     I  know  you're  kidding; 

Or  else  this  course  has  worn  you  out 
Until  your  brain  is  skidding!" 

"Thank  Heaven,  it's  true!"  replied  with  joy 
The  first,  his  whole  face  grinning, 

"But  eight  more  lectures,  then,  my  boy, 
Vacation  is  beginning." 

Buoyed  up,  they  passed  into  the  room, 
(Whose  room  I  shall  not  mention) 

I  saw  each  one  of  them  assume 
A  look  of  rapt  attention. 


22  LYRA  YALENSIS 

II 

Next  day  I  passed  their  teacher,  where 

Mid  Whitney  Avenue  dust 
He  walked  to  save  his  trolley  fare, 

As  all  professors  must. 

"I'm  just  all  in,"  I  heard  him  state, 

"My  brain  is  getting  seedy; 
It's  no  soft  snap  to  stimulate 

The  mental  poor  and  needy. 

"But  three  weeks  more?    You're  sure  that's 

straight  ? 

And  then  the  term  is  ending! 
Well,   watch   me   hike   right   out!     That's 

great ! 
To  Europe  I'll  be  wending." 

Did  he  say  "hike"?    That  very  word. 

Much  lower  would  you  rate  him 
Did  I  repeat  each  phrase  I  heard. 

I'm  giving  this  verbatim. 

Sadly  perplexed,  I  watched  him  pass. 

What  curious  aberration 
Made  both  the  teacher  and  his  class 

Long  so  for  the  vacation  ? 


IN  ABSENTIA 

T  SAY  to  you  I  hold  it  true 

-*•      As  axiom  mathematical, 
That  he  is  blest  above  the  rest 
Who's  off  on  his  sabbatical. 

He  can  explore  each  foreign  shore 

In  manner  autocratical; 
In  Greece  he  dreams — (and  we  read  themes!) 

The  man  on  his  sabbatical. 

He  sings  a  paean  o'er  Bodleian, 

In  knowledge  grows  piratical. 
We  wear  our  mind  on  bluff  and  grind, 

While  he's  on  his  sabbatical. 

We  toil  each  night;  he  can  delight 

In  pleasures  operatical, 
Sleep  late  next  day — and  merely  say: 

"Why,  I'm  on  my  sabbatical!" 

No  telephone  can  make  him  groan 

By  constant  ring  emphatical. 
Beyond  the  pale  of  dunning  mail, 

The  man  on  his  sabbatical. 


24  LYRA  YALENSIS 

When  longed-for  Spring  but  comes  to  bring 

A  laziness  climatical, 
He  need  harass  no  sleepy  class, 

The  man  on  his  sabbatical. 

Millennium  would  surely  come, 

And  life  would  grow  ecstatical, 
Could  we  teach  here  the  even  year, 

The  odd  one,  take  sabbatical! 


THE  MATCH 
(NOT  AFTER  SWINBURNE) 

"Matches  shall  not  be  brought  to   the   Library. 
— Bodleian  Library  Staff-Kalendar,  1912,  p.  50. 

NE  fatal  day  I  wound  my  way 

Up  Bodley's  steep  ascent; 
My  shoulders  showed  the  scholar's  stoop, 

Even  my  mind  was  bent 
(On  books) — I  was  no  undergrad — 
I  knew  what  study  meant. 

As  on  I  sped  with  decorous  tread 

Rare  manuscripts  to  scan, 
I  drew  a  note  from  out  my  coat 

And  a  match  fell  down!    What  man 
Confronts  me  there  with  fearful  glare? 

'Tis  the  Librarian!!! 

My  blood  congealed,  my  senses  reeled, 

For  the  stern  rule  I'd  read; 
I  thought  that  every  hair  must  rise 

In  terror  on  my  head ; 
Then  I  recalled  I  was  quite  bald, 

So  I  had  a  chill  instead. 


26  LYRA  YALENSIS 

There  in  the  gloom  I  saw  my  doom — 

Ejected  by  the  staff! 
I'd  read  no  more  on  the  upper  floor 

The  German  monograph; 
For  me  no  home  'neath  RadclifFs  dome;- 

I  laughed  a  ghastly  laugh. 

"I  swear  'tis  true,  I  never  knew 
I  owned  that  match."     He  sighed. 

"Some  knave,  I  wot,  devised  this  plot 
To  ruin  me,"  I  cried. 

"I  never  smoke" — no  more  I  spoke, 
For  I  saw  he  knew  I  lied. 

He  bent  him  down  beneath  his  gown ; 

Now  my  last  hope  was  dead. 
My  sight  grew  dim  as  I  gazed  on  him, 

Thrilled  with  a  nameless  dread. 
I  saw  him  snatch  the  accursed  match — 

'Twas  a  match  without  a  head! 


PROLOGUES 

TO   THE 

SCENES  DEPICTING  THE  HISTORY 
OF  YALE 

PRESENTED  ON  THE  CAMPUS  BY  THE 

STUDENTS  AT  THE 
TWO    HUNDREDTH    ANNIVERSARY 

OF    THE 
FOUNDING  OF  THE   COLLEGE 


I 


THE  FOUNDING  OF  THE  COLLE- 
GIATE SCHOOL 

NO  idle  jests  we  offer  you  to-day, 
No  antique  mask,   no  solemn,   classic 

play, 

But  on  this  petty  stage  we  would  present 
The  scenes  our  fathers  saw,   the  ways  they 

wrent ; 

And  for  brief  moments  in  your  presence  here, 
Recall  the  past  and  bid  the  dead  appear. 
No  dreamy  fancies  then  we  act  for  you, 
But  all  you  shall  behold  is  sure  and  true. 
First   comes  our  simplest   act,   and  here  are 

shown 

The  men  who  laid  old  Yale's  firm  corner- 
stone. 

The  curtain  rises  upon  the  interior  of  the 
Reverend  Samuel  Russel's  house  at  Branford. 
As  this  Puritan  divine  is  examining  his  books, 
choosing  which  ones  he  will  give  for  the  foun- 
dation of  a  collegiate  school,  nine  other  minis- 
ters enter.  One  of  them,  the  Reverend  Abra- 
ham Pierson,  having  ascertained  that  all  the 


30  LYRA  YALENSIS 

founders  are  present,  places  his  own  books  on 
the  table  with  the  words,  "I  give  these  books 
for  the  founding  of  a  college  in  the  colony." 
The  others  repeat  his  action  and  his  words. 
The  Reverend  Mr.  Russel  accepts  the  custody 
of  the  library;  and  in  silence,  by  mutual  con- 
sent, the  ministers  turn  to  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Noyes,  who  raises  his  hands  and  invokes  the 
blessing  of  God  as  the  curtain  falls. 


II 


THE   REMOVAL  OF  THE   SCHOOL 

LIBRARY  FROM  SAYBROOK  TO 

NEW  HAVEN,  1718 

YOU  must  suppose  some  twenty  years  have 
flown, 
And  with  the  years  the  school  so  strong  has 

grown 

That  rival  towns  for  deadly  war  prepare; 
Each  claims  the  school  to  be  its  pride  and  care. 
And  as  the  Greeks  and  Trojans,  unsubdued, 
Long  waged  on  Ilium's  plains  the  deadly  feud, 
So  in  old  Saybrook  rose  the  warrior's  cry, 
And  women's  wailings  smote  the  distant  sky. 
A  war  for  books  our  mimic  stage  will  fill, 
Behold  the  conflict,  tremble — and  keep  still! 

The  people  of  Saybrook,  angry  because  the 
school  is  to  find  its  home  in  New  Haven,  have 
gathered  to  prevent  by  force  the  removal  of 
the  library.  From  the  left,  enter  Governor 
Saltonstall,  the  sheriff,  and  a  crowd  of  citi- 
zens and  students  eager  for  the  fray.  The 
Governor  speaks:  "For  the  good  of  the  colony 


32  LYRA  YALENSIS 

this  school  must  be  moved  to  New  Haven,  no 
matter  what  these  people  say.  Sheriff,  here 
is  your  warrant.  Do  your  duty!"  In  the 
riot  that  follows,  many  heads  are  broken  and 
many  books  are  destroyed.  In  the  end,  the 
students  prevail  and  carry  off  the  library  in  a 
cart  amid  shouts  of  triumph. 


Ill 


WASHINGTON  AT  YALE,  JUNE  28, 
1775 


for  a  little  space  I  bid  you  see 

The   men   who   gained   our   country's 

liberty. 

Here  in  this  deep,  secluded  college  hall 
They  heard  from  distant  fields  the  trumpet- 

call. 

And  with  a  shout  they  answered  it  again; 
Boys  that  they  were,  they  played  the  part  of 

men! 
Their    cheer    was    heard    above    the    musket 

sound, 

They  left  their  dead  on  many  a  battle  ground. 
So  came  to  Yale  as  her  most  honoured  guest, 
Of  all  our  race,  the  bravest  and  the  best. 

Several  students  are  discussing  the  newly 
formed  Yale  company  with  its  captain,  George 
Welles,  when  a  messenger  announces  that 
General  Washington  is  coming  to  inspect  it. 
At  once,  assembly  is  sounded  and  the  men  fall 
in  line.  As  General  Washington  enters  with 
President  Daggett,  Captain  Welles  is  putting 


34  LYRA  YALENSIS 

his  soldiers  through  the  manual  of  arms. 
Washington  reviews  the  company  and  con- 
gratulates the  captain  on  its  appearance.  The 
students  request  that  they  may  escort  Wash- 
ington through  the  town  on  his  way  to  Cam- 
bridge. He  accepts  their  offer ;  they  form  and 
march  off,  with  Noah  Webster  as  drummer. 


IV 

THE    EXECUTION    OF    NATHAN 
HALE,  SEPTEMBER  22,  1776 

WE  meet  to  praise  and  honor  her  to-night 
Who  freely  gives  to  all  her  truth  and 

light. 

No  one  in  this  vast  throng  but  gladly  sees 
Her    ivied    walls,    her    towers,    her    arching 

trees : 

Yet  most  we  cheer  her  when  her  flag's  un- 
furled, 

For  sending  out  strong  men  into  the  world. 
And  of  her  strongest  band,  foremost  is  he 
Who  played  her  saddest,  grandest  tragedy. 
No  braver,  nobler  son  had  mother  Yale: 
Honor  her  spy,  her  martyr — Nathan  Hale! 

The  sound  of  a  muffled  drum  is  heard  and 
the  tramp  of  marching  men.  The  curtain 
rises  upon  a  British  officer  and  a  squad  of 
soldiers  surrounding  Nathan  Hale.  He  stands 
beneath  an  apple  tree,  his  hands  bound,  a 
rope  about  his  neck.  In  the  distance  are  a 
few  spectators,  overcome  by  helpless  rage  and 
sorrow.  As  the  curtain  falls,  Hale  says, 
calmly  yet  clearly:  "I  only  regret  that  I  have 
but  one  life  to  lose  for  my  country." 


INITIATION  INTO  THE  FRESH- 
MAN SOCIETIES,  1850-1860 

HISTORIANS  tell  us  'twas  a  gruesome 
sight 

To  watch  the  Druids  at  their  mystic  rite; 
In  Greece,  though  it  was  somewhat  hard  to 

see, 

They  had  the  Eleusinian  mystery; 
But  Celt  and  Greek,  outdone,  would  bow  the 

head 
Before    Yale's    Freshman    orders,    now    long 

dead. 

Therefore  we  offer  to  the  public  view 
Those  secret  rites  that  turned  the  Freshman 

blue. 
We   now   recall   them   though    their    day   is 

done: 
Bring  on  the  candidates  and  watch  the  fun ! 

On  a  darkened  stage  gleam  a  few  ghostly 
lights  showing  stocks,  a  guillotine  and  a  huge 
caldron.  About  it  stand  Sophomores  in  black 
robes  and  masks,  uttering  weird  cries  as  some 
cowering  Freshmen  are  led  in.  They  are 


THE  FRESHMAN  SOCIETIES    37 

made  to  kneel.  It  thunders  and  shooting 
flames  issue  from  the  caldron.  The  Sopho- 
mores throw  off  their  cowls  and  stand  attired 
in  hideous  forms.  The  Freshmen  are  driven 
about,  tossed  in  blankets,  stocked,  guillotined, 
and  finally  caught  by  a  huge  devil  and  pitch- 
forked into  the  seething  caldron. 


VI 
THE  BURIAL  OF  EUCLID,  1857 

OUR   studious    fathers,    in    the    good   old 
days, 
Would  burn  the  midnight  oil — 'tis  to  their 

praise. 

Yet  once  a  year  a  different  course  they  took: 
They  saved  the  oil   and  burned  instead   the 

book. 

Some  say  that  this  was  done  in  simple  spite; 
Others,  to  prove  that  knowledge  is  a  light. 
So  here  you  see,  poor  victim  to  their  ire, 
Old  Euclid  flaming  on  his  funeral  pyre. 
In  this  commercial  age  such  customs  stop: 
We  save  our  books  to  sell  to  the  "Co-op." 

A  crowd  of  students  enter  in  solemn  proces- 
sion to  the  music  of  a  dirge.  They  perform 
various  mystic  rites,  but  gradually  relax  into 
a  more  hilarious  mood.  Euclid  is  laid  upon 
the  funeral  pyre;  a  Latin  oration  is  pro- 
nounced; and  the  book  is  burned  amid 
demonstrations  of  profound  grief. 


VII 
THE  FENCE,   1870-1890 

MANY  will  think  on  vanished  days  to- 
night, 

And  search  in  vain  for  some  familiar  sight. 
They  knew  the  smaller  Yale  of  long  ago, 
The  simpler  outline  of  the  Old  Brick  Row. 
Still  through  all  change,   'tis  Yale  they  see 

again : 

Yale  lives  not  in  her  walls,  but  in  her  men ! 
And  yet  in  all  her  glory  they  still  miss 
What  ne'er  can  be  recalled  again — 'tis  this, 
This  simple  structure,  plain,  without  pretense, 
The  bond  of   friendships;   'tis  the  old  Yale 

Fence. 

The  Fence,  as  it  stood  before  the  erection 
of  Osborn  Hall,  with  the  Brick  Row  in  the 
background.  Students  are  lounging  about. 
Customs  of  the  time  are  shown  in  quick  suc- 
cession: the  effects  of  a  fire  alarm,  of  the 
passing  of  stylishly  dressed  or  handsome  pedes- 
trians, of  the  news  of  an  athletic  victory,  of 
the  arrival  of  a  victorious  team.  After  a  short 
intermission,  the  Fence  is  seen  at  night.  A 
few  students,  gathered  in  the  moonlight,  sing 
their  college  songs. 


VIII 

A  COLLEGE  ROOM,  OCTOBER  21, 
1901 

A  JOURNEY  far  we've  made  into  the 
**  past ; — 

Now  to  the  present  we  return  at  last. 
How  once  our  fathers  lived  at  Yale,  we've 

shown ; 

Now  see  our  life — the  life  we  all  have  known ; 
Of  thought,  of  strength,  of  hope  untouched  by 

care, 
When  songs  and  laughter  ring  out  through 

the  air. 

No  castle  towering  proudly  to  the  sky, 
No  princely  palaces  can  ever  vie 
With  these  Yale  homes,  so  friendly,  free  from 

gloom, — 
What    brighter    spot    than    our    old    college 

room? 

A  room  crowded  with  students.  While  one 
is  attempting  to  study,  others  are  playing  a 
piano,  mandolins,  guitars,  and  singing  at  the 
top  of  their  lungs.  Visitors  of  every  descrip- 
tion enter:  boot-blacks,  old  clothes  men,  news- 
heelers,  book  agents,  collectors.  The  noise  at 
length  disturbs  a  proctor,  who  suddenly  enters 
and  quells  an  incipient  riot. 


IX 
THE  YALE  COLLEGE  CHAPEL 

you  we  have  done  our  best  to-night, 
For  you  we  succeed  or  fail ; 
Have  we  done  ill,  have  we  done  aright, 

We  have  worked  for  the  honour  of  Yale. 

For  she  gives  us  strength,  she  gives  us  hope, 

She  gives  us  a  courage  free; 
Her  call  of  cheer  all  the  land  shall  hear, 

And  the  isles  of  the  distant  sea. 

Her  truth  is  fair  as  a  jewel  rare, 
Her  light  shall  the  stars  surpass; 

May  fame  and  honor  be  ever  her  share, — 
Lux  et  Veritas! 

The  rising  of  the  curtain  discloses  the  stu- 
dents in  the  pews  in  chapel,  their  backs  turned 
to  the  audience.  In  the  pulpit,  at  the  back  of 
the  stage,  facing  down  the  middle  aisle  to  the 
front,  stands  Elihu  Yale.  The  students  rise 
.and  sing  the  Doxology.  At  its  close,  Elihu 
Yale  walks  down  the  aisle,  the  students 
bowing  low  as  he  passes.  As  he  reaches  the 
footlights,  the  audience  rises  with  one  accord 
and  joins  in  a  second  singing  of  the  Doxol- 
ogy. 


A  BALLAD  OF  ALL  SOULS  DAY 

"IX/TY  little  page,"  the  lady  said, 
•*•  *  •*•     "In  dreams  I  saw  last  night 
Thy  master  standing  by  my  bed 
With  visage  worn  and  white. 

"I  saw  the  red  cross  on  his  breast, 
From  sword-hilt  flashed  a  gem; 

He  said,  'At  last  I've  earned  my  rest, 
I've  won  H Jerusalem.' 

"I  thought  for  joy  my  heart  would  break, 

But  swift  he  turned  away; 
I  cried  to  him — I  was  awake! 

And  this  is  All  Souls  day. 

"In  the  gray  chapel  'neath  the  wall 

I've  prayed  before  the  shrine 
Until  the  saints  have  heard  my  call 

And  saved  this  love  of  mine. 

"I  know  the  holy  city's  ta'en, 

The  long  crusade  is  o'er, 
This  morn  thy  master  comes  again 

Home  from  far  Eastern  shore." 

Upon  the  walls  the  lady  went, 

For  very  joy  wept  she, 
And  all  the  morn  her  gaze  she  bent 

For  tidings  from  the  sea. 


BALLAD  OF  ALL  SOULS  DAY  43 

All  morn  she  looked — but  looked  in  vain, 
Yet  still  her  watch  would  keep; 

She  saw  nought  but  some  peasant's  wain, 
Or  flock  of  straggling  sheep. 

In  the  gray  chapel  'neath  her  feet 

There  gleams  the  candle's  ray, 
And  clear-voiced  choristers  repeat 

The  prayers  for  All  Souls  day. 

The  sun  sank  low,  the  wind  blew  chill, 

She  looked  far  out  to  sea, 
When  suddenly  across  the  hill 

A  knight  rode  hastily. 

"Run  down,  run  down,  my  little  page, 

Yon  rider  spurs  so  fast; 
He  brings  me  news  of  pilgrimage, 

Thy  master  comes  at  last." 

To  the  moat  bridge  the  horseman  rode; 

It  fell,  with  creaking  chain. 
He  crossed,  and  sadly,  without  word, 

He  threw  the  page  his  rein. 

"Now  welcome  back,  good  Delarolle; 

And  is  my  lord  quite  near?" 
He  bowed  his  head.     "God  rest  his  soul! 

He  fell  'neath  paynim  spear." 


TWO  GREEK  PORTRAITS 

PENELOPE 

PENELOPE,  Penelope, 
She  sat  in  silence  by  the  sea. 
Far  out  she  gazed  with  eager  eye, 
Naught  but  the  gulls  could  she  descry; 
And  her  Odysseus,  where  was  he? 
Penelope,  Penelope. 

Penelope,  Penelope. 

Is  this  the  end  of  constancy 

Such  as  the  world  had  never  known, 

Here  by  the  sea  to  watch  alone? 

And  her  Odysseus,  where  was  he? 

Penelope,  Penelope. 

"Ye  gulls,  as  o'er  the  waves  ye  flew, 
Saw  ye  Odysseus  and  his  crew? 
O  clouds,  O  winds,  O  dancing  foam, 
Tell  if  his  prow  is  pointed  home!" 
No  answer  came,  alas,  to  thee, 
Penelope,  Penelope. 

Penelope,  Penelope. 

She  sank  into  a  reverie : 

Odysseus  seemed  to  tread  the  shore, 


PENELOPE  45 

She  heard  his  thrilling  voice  once  more — 
Who  calls  ?  who  speaks  ?    Can  that  be  Death  ? 
Nay,  'tis  her  maid  all  out  of  breath. 

"Please,   Ma'am,  will  you  come  home  with 

me? 

There's  fifty  suitors  come  to  tea. 
The  cook  has  left,  there  ain't  no  meat, 
There's  nothing  in  the  house  to  eat. 
I'm  overworked  and  underpaid, 
You've  got  to  get  another  maid !" 

***** 

One  long,  last  look  out  o'er  the  sea, 
Then  home  she  skipped,  Penelope. 


ARIADNE 

ON  the  sand  stood  Ariadne,  o'er  the  water 
gazing  sadly, 
For  she  saw  across  the  lonely  waves  no  gray 

sail  drawing  near. 
Then  she  stooped  down  gently,  lightly,  and 

her  eyes  shone  clearly,  brightly, 
As  she  lifted  up  a  fragile  shell  and  pressed 
it  to  her  ear. 

And  she  said,  "O  whispering  shell,  have  you 

heard  the  swift  winds  tell, 
Have  the  dipping  gulls  called  to  you  where 

my  Theseus  sails  the  sea? 
I  have  waited  long  despairing,  all  alone  my 

sorrow  bearing, 
Tell  me  when  the  wind  and  waves  shall  bring 

him  back  again  to  me." 

Then  she  heard  the  shell's  soft  murmur,  like 

the  bees  in  early  summer, 
Or  like  distant  music  stealing  o'er  a  lake  in 

dim  twilight, 
When  each  voice  is  hushed  to  listen,  and  the 

calming  moon-beams  glisten, 
While   the   floating  sounds   scarce   strike   the 

ear,  then  fade  into  the  night. 


ARIADNE  47 

And  the  shell's  low,  ceaseless  murmur  whis- 
pered, "Never,  never,  never, 

Ne'er  again,  O  Ariadne,  shall  your  Theseus 
tread  this  shore. 

He  is  false  and  he  is  faithless,  all  his  vows  of 
love  were  worthless, 

He  has  fled  from  you  and  left  you — you  shall 
never  see  him  more." 

Ariadne,  Ariadne,   not  one  moment  did  she 

tarry, 
But  with  all  her  little  strength  into  the  sea 

she  threw  the  shell, 
And  the  water  seemed  to  greet  it  for  a  wave 

rose  up  to  meet  it, 
And  the  sparkling  ripples  seemed  to  laugh  as 

with  a  splash  it  fell. 

But  far  out  a  wave  came  dancing,  like  a  war 

horse,  leaping,  prancing, 
And  it  proudly  bowed  its  foam-capped  head 

and  broke  with  echoing  roar; 
Then  the  water  rushed  and  scurried,  quickly 

to  the  sea  it  hurried, 
And  again,  at  Ariadne's  feet,  the  shell  lay  on 

the  shore. 


48  LYRA  YALENSIS 

Ariadne,    Ariadne,    grasped    the    shell    then, 

eager,   gladly, 
For  she  said,  "The  sea  has  sent  you  back  this 

time  to  tell  me  true; 
When  shall  I,  my  lone  watch  keeping,  see  his 

prow  come  slowly  creeping, 
Till  his  gray  sails  and  his  tall  mast  gleam 

against  the  heaven's  blue  ?" 

Then  she  listened,  listened  ever,  but  the  shell 

said,  "Never,  never." 
Still  she  listened,  hoping,  fearing,  saying,  "Ah, 

it  cannot  be," 
Till  the  day  gave  place  to  even  and  the  pale 

stars  wept  in  heaven, 
While,    far    off,    her    faithless   Theseus    fled 

across  the  trackless  sea. 


A  PICTURE 

ON  harpsichord,  Clarissa  plays 
The  melodies  of  by-gone  days. 
Forgotten  fugue,  a  solemn  tune, 
The  bars  of  stately  rigadoon. 
With  head  bent  down  to  scan  each  note, 
A  crimson  ribbon  round  her  throat, 
The  very  birds  to  sing  forget 
As  some  old-fashioned  minuet 
Clarissa  plays. 

King  George  long  since  has  passed  away, 
And  minuets  have  lived  their  day. 
Within  some  hidden  attic  nook 
Lies  in  the  dust  her  music  book. 
Gone  are  those  keys  her  ringers  pressed, 
Gone  with  the  roses  at  her  breast. 
Yet  still  unmindful  of  Time's  flight 
With  face  demure,  with  fingers  light, 
Clarissa  plays. 


L'ENVOI 

GO,  lovely  Rose,  and  to  her  tell 
All  I  would  say,  could  I  but  see 
That  slender  form  I  know  so  well, 

Those  roguish  eyes  that  laughed  at  me. 

And  when  your  fragrance  fills  the  room, 
Tell  her  of  all  I  hope  and  fear: 

With  every  breath  of  your  perfume, 
Whisper  my  greetings  in  her  ear. 

But,  Roses,  stay;  there  is  one  thing 
You  need  not  mention.  Don't  forget! 

(It  might  prove  quite  embarrassing) 
And  that  is — you're  not  paid  for  yet! 


ROMANCE 

"But  little  do  men  perceive  what  solitude  is,  and  how  far 
it  extendeth.  For  a  crowd  is  not  company ;  and  faces  are 
but  a  gallery  of  pictures  ;  and  talk  but  a  tinkling  cymbal, 
where  there  is  no  love."— BACON,  Of  Friendship. 

r  'M  caught  in  this  corner,  no  moving  at  all, 
•*-  With  this  miserable  cup  that  I'm  bound 

to  let  fall; 
I  must  take  my  part,  too,  in  this  game  they 

all  play 
Of  just  talking  along  when  you've  nothing  to 

say. 
"Do  you  know  what   I've  heard?"     "They 

don't  dream  of  divorce?" 
"Her  pearls  .    .   .  hm !  .   .   .  just  good  imita- 
tions, of  course." 

"Do  watch  Mrs.  Bond,  with  her  kittenish  air; 
"Every  Spring  she  comes  out  in  a  new  shade 

of  hair." 

"Just  look  at  Miss  Folly's  ridiculous  hat!" 
"My  dear,  aren't  you  glad  you've  no  daughter 

like  that?" 
"And  they  say  Mrs.  Rich" — "No,  that  cannot 

be  true." 
"Well,   you   never   can   tell   what   a  woman 

won't  do." 
Is  a  man  made  for  this?    What  worse  place 

could  there  be 
Than  a  chattering,  gossiping  afternoon-tea! 


52  LYRA  YALENSIS 

Perhaps   you've    not    noticed    that    girl    over 

there 
With  the  deep,   dreamy  eyes  and   the   dark, 

wavy  hair. 
She  stands  by  that  window,  apart  from  the 

rest, 
Looking   down   on   the   violets  worn   at   her 

breast. 

That  man  who  is  with  her  is  simply  a  cad; 
His  family,  manners  and  jokes  all  are  bad. 
But   to-day  all  such  obstacles  one  may  sur- 
mount 

Provided  he's  blest  with  a  fat  bank  account. 
And  I,  well — I've  something  quite  earnest  to 

say 
If  she  only  would  glance  for  a  moment  my 

way, 
But  she  never  will  turn — "Mr.  Brown,  is  that 

you?" 
"Thanks;   another   small   cup."      "Is   it   one 

lump  or  two?" 

Yes,  of  course  I'm  a  fool — that  is  easy  to  see — 
But — still  I  stay  on  at  this  DAMNABLE 

tea!!! 


IN  VACATION 

I 
THE  WRECK 

LONE  on  the  beach  the  old  wreck  stands 
Half  hidden  by  the  drifting  sands. 
Fiercely  the  waves  against  it  beat 
Yet  still  it  braves  the  summer  heat 
And  the  winter  blast,  when  the  waves  roll 

fast, 
An  old,   old  wreck — and   the  sky's  o'ercast. 

The  shells  and  weeds  have  o'er  it  grown; 

It  hears  the  distant  sand-bar  moan, 

The  snipe's  shrill  call,  the  gull's  harsh  cry, 

And  the  breezes  singing  a  lullaby. 

The  shadows  fall  and  the  sand  grows  brown, 

An  old,  old  wreck — and  the  sun's  gone  down. 

The  sky  is  black  and  the  air  is  cold, 
The  wild  waves  crash  on   the   timbers  old: 
They  leap  and  roar  like  some  beast  of  prey, 
Till  the  wreck  is  white  with  the  tossing  spray. 
It  creaks  and  groans  as  the  waves  dash  by, 
An  old,  old  wreck — and  the  tide  is  high. 


54  LYRA  YALENSIS 

The  sea  is  still  as  a  child  asleep, 

Far  down  the  heaven  the  bright  stars  creep; 

The  moon  caresses  the  earth  below, 

And  the  waters  rise  with  a  gentle  flow. 

The  bare  dunes  now  are  in  beauty  drest, 

An  old,  old  wreck — and  the  world's  at  rest. 

II 
FRENCHMAN'S  BAY 

OUDDEN  and  swift  the  mountains  rise 
K-J     Smiting  the  heavens   free; 
Close  o'er  their  heads  are  the  sun-swept  skies, 
And  close  at  their  feet — the  sea! 

For  the  fleet  waves  race  past  the  mountains' 

base 

To  the  calm  of  the  pine  fringed  bay; 
They  come  from  the  deeps  where  the  tempest 

sweeps 
Round  dim  isles  far  away. 

Now  the  waves  are  black  with   the   storm- 
wind's  track, 

They  are  green  as  a  mermaid's  eyes, 
When  faint  stars  shine  they  are  crimson  wine, 

They  are  wan  when  the  daylight  dies. 


FRENCHMAN'S  BAY  55 

On  the  rocks  they  moan  in  a  sullen  tone, 
Like  wolves  on  the  beach  they  leap, 

They  ripple  and  sigh  in  a  lullaby 
Charming  a  child  to  sleep. 

In  the  loveless  day  when  the  skies  are  gray, 

The  sea  is  a  widow  old ; 
Beneath  the  moon,  she's  a  bride  of  June, 

Glowing  in  cloth  of  gold. 

But  the  peaks  are  unmoved  by  the  plundering 

storm, 

Unthrilled  by  the  moonlight's  lure. 
What  change  can  they  know,  what  passion's 

glow, 
Those  mountains  strong  and  sure? 

Safe  on  the  hill  ye  may  rest  who  will, 
But  the  waves  weave  a  spell  o'er  me ; 

Where  the  tide  runs  high,  where  the  shrill 

gulls  cry, 
I  follow  the  restless  sea. 


THE  HERITAGE 

TT^ROM  the  drear  North,  a  cold  and  cheer- 
•*-       less  land, 

Our  fathers  sprang. 

They  drove  no  flocks  to  crop  the  tender  grass, 
They  gazed  on  lonely  moor,  on  deep  morass, 
And  wintry  skies  whence,  to  their  viking  band, 
The  raven  sang. 

O'er  flowerless  lands  the  storm-tossed  forests 
threw 

A  gloomy  pall. 

On  treacherous  seas  they  raised  their  plunder- 
ing sail, 
Fought  with  the  waves,  outrode  the  Northern 

gale, 

High  overhead  the  startled  sea  gulls  flew 
With  clamoring  call. 

They  heard  the  breakers  smite  the  quivering 
shore 

With   thunder   roll. 

No  songs  they  sang  to  greet  the  Harvest  wain 
In  happy  fields  rich  with  the  ripened  grain; 
Stern  was  their  world,   a  sorrow  stern  they 
bore 

Deep  in  the  soul. 


THE  HERITAGE  57 

Through   countless  years,   faint  memories  of 
their  times 

Will  oft  awake. 
From  waves  and  shifting  sands,  their  resting 

place, 

The  Norsemen  send  us,  offspring  of  their  race, 
Dimly     remembered     dreams,     like     minster 
chimes 

Heard  o'er  a  lake. 

So  come  dark  moments,  when  in  this  green 
land 

Norsemen  are  we; 

And  crave  the  sorrow  of  the  leafless  wood, 
Or  seek  some  barren  dune's  gray  solitude 
To  hear  bleak  winds  go  moaning  down  the 
sand, 

By  the  wild  sea. 


ADVENTURE 

I 

I  LOVED  my  garden;  in  its  cloistered  plot 
Blossomed     the     earliest     daffodils     of 

Spring. 

Hiding  gray  walls  the  roses  climbed ;  each  spot 
Breathed  blessing;  tender  violets  languish- 
ing 

Scattered  faint  incense.     Honeysuckle  sweet, 
And  fragrant  grass — soft  rest  for  weary  feet — 
Enticed  the  care-worn  soul.    All  that  birds 

sing 
I  knew,  and  with  each  note  my  heart  would 

reach 
A  tranquil  joy  beyond  our  mortal  speech. 

One  morn,  across  the  distant,  sheltering  hill, 
Swift  from  the  sea  the  eastern  wind  blew 

strong. 
The  blackbird's  note  was  hushed ;  as  all  grew 

still 

I  heard  far  off  that  ancient,  charmed  song — 
The  ocean's  call.  The  flowers  I  loved  so  well 
Trembled  and  died.  Half  freed  from  drowsy 

spell 
Of  garden  glamourie,  I  lingered  long, 


ADVENTURE  59 

Then    opened    wide    the    gate    and    out    did 

pass — 
The   red   rose   strewed    its   petals   down   the 

grass. 

Through  the  rich  meadows,  past  the  moors 

I  went. 
(The  song  of  birds  came  faintly  down  the 

hill) 

Sweeter  than  roses  was  the  waves'  keen  scent, 

I  heard  the  wheeling  sea  gulls  calling  shrill. 

With  bruised  hands  I  clambered  down  a  ledge 

And   reached — no   resting  place — the  ocean's 

edge. 
Dim    dreams    came    to    my    heart,    brave 

thoughts  that  thrill. 

There  lay  a  boat,  for  this  day  was  I  made, 
Push  out!  and  o'er  the  hill  the  roses  fade. 


II 


T  CANNOT  tell  where  lies  my  land, 
•*•  I  have  no  guiding  star,  no  chart, 
Clutching  the  tiller,  firm  I  stand 

And  fight  the  waves  with  unmoved  heart. 


60  LYRA  YALENSIS 

Tossed  by  the  stealthy  waves,  alone 

On  trackless  tides  where  strange  stars  shine, 

I  seek  far  regions,  vast,  unknown. 

( Hark !  how  the  gale  sweeps  o'er  the  brine ! ) 

Rest — 'twas  the  empty  gift  of  Death. 

The  Gods  themselves  that  man  deride 
Who  waits  their  word  with  trembling  breath, 

His  path  untrod  and  life  untried. 

'Tis  cold.    Far  off  in  cloistered  plot 
The  roses  bloom,  the  violets  wait. 

Breakers! — I  would  not  change  my  lot, 
Nor  turn  dismayed  from  unknown  Fate. 

FINIS. 


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